


bird and bloom begin: one.

by shaeberry



Series: bird and bloom begin. [1]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce, PIERCE Tamora - Works
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1588430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaeberry/pseuds/shaeberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an origin story. first part of a ficlet cycle that looks at the early years of lark and rosethorn together, and the development of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bird and bloom begin: one.

_1025 K. F., Rose Moon._

It was nearing three months since Dedicate Lark had moved into the sturdy whitewashed cottage on the northeast border of Winding Circle’s grounds. She was beginning to feel safe, and even a bit at home there, truly— doubtlessly safer than her last days in the Mire, at least, and it was a definite improvement to living amongst the other novices and newly-made dedicates. Her so-called ‘peers’ either jumped when they looked at her (for she’d worn the white robe for a comparatively short time and was meant to be granted her Initiate’s credentials after only a year’s study), or they dismissed her entirely because she was nearly a decade older than most of them and only just beginning her work as a mage.

Her mentor, Dedicate Seamsong, realized the problem and appealed to Honored Stormbuck for some living accommodations with solitude, knowing that Lark would never do so on her own. Being accustomed to independent existence, Lark gladly jumped at the chance to move into the long-unused little house, even with the caveat that her living companion did not have a gift for interpersonal interactions.

Dedicate Rosethorn had moved into the cottage only a few seasons prior to Lark, and her tendency to bite before she barked made her an easy target for discord among the other students, especially the academic mages, who endlessly frustrated her.  She’d only been given the fall and winter to prepare, but her skills as a green mage showed through the roaring success of the once-overgrown back garden. Already its beds were neat and well-maintained, flowers in full bloom, plants bursting forth with the first of what was sure to be a plentiful harvest. Rosethorn herself proved to be no less than her chosen temple name promised: distinctly uninviting.

The women had barely conversed beyond idle discourse regarding their magical practices and studies. Lark knew as little about the stubborn, hardworking dedicate as she had when she arrived, but it wasn’t for lack of encouragement, at least at the onset. Lark always did her best to be welcoming, and, admittedly, was growing a bit desperate for good companionship. But she recognized when she needed to let someone approach _her_ from within their own borders. And since the only places out-of-bounds to Lark on the cottage grounds were Rosethorn’s workroom and the garden, that made either of them the only safe territory. From what she’d seen, Lark knew she would be waiting awhile for an invitation. She would use the opportunity to further cultivate patience.

One sunny summer afternoon, she was released from work at the loomhouses early, and walked the spiral path home, breathing in the air fresh with scents of flourishing plant growth, fresh-cut lumber for carpentry, sun-baking clay, and the metallic tang of smoke from the forges. Lark happily resolved to take full advantage of the lovely warm breezes and get some of her own projects done out-of-doors. She washed and scoured a bale of newly-sheared fleece, and began to lay it out to dry on a sheer cloth that hung from stakes pounded into the grass. The fibers would smell of a snug sheep's body and a bright, balmy day. She hummed as she worked, the few snatches of street tunes nearly obscuring an indiscernible shout from the back yard that _might_ have been her name. Lark disregarded it; Rosethorn was prone to cursing loudly when something frustrated her. But moments later, the shout echoed again, more insistent.

“Rosethorn? Are you talking to me?”

“ _Yes!_ ” came the gruff and emphatic reply. “I need help with these beanpoles. Are you handy?”

“One moment!” Lark laid out the final section of wool and made sure the cloth and framework supporting it would hold.

“Sooner would be better!” Lark allowed herself a slight eyeroll. This prickly, elusive woman's attitude might be the death of her one day, but while they lived under the same roof, Lark had silently avowed she wouldn’t be the one doling out the sentence.

She trotted briskly around the corner, and suppressed a gasp as she realized why Rosethorn had demanded urgency. The woman was without question in _quite_ a bind. Her habit was kilted up, legs streaked with soil as usual, and she was stuck ankle-deep in thick mud. She looked like she’d been struggling to drive a long reed stake into the wet ground before the plants had gotten their own ideas about what might be more fun. Vines twined tightly around all her limbs and joined back with each other in a wild, boisterous tangle, pulling her amongst them, and entirely off balance. Without the ability to move her feet, she had to support herself with the stake to keep from toppling over amidst the very beans that clutched her so tightly. She was precariously trapped.

Lark held a twitch of a grin from appearing at the corner of her mouth, and wondered why in the Green Man's name Rosethorn hadn’t called for help _before_ she realized she was in over her head. “What can I do?”

“It's this incessant sunlight after so much rain— makes them overexcitable— if I could just get my footing, I could get them under control and properly secure—”

“Dedicate Rosethorn, I _can_ assist if need be. That _is_ why you called for me? Unless you simply wanted to show off?” The playful lilt in Lark’s voice was unmistakable; she forgave herself for a small bit of humor at a time like this.

Rosethorn’s chestnut eyes narrowed, and she huffed. “First thing’s first, you put your feet _exactly_ where I tell you to, and don’t move.” Lark nodded. “Shoes off, please. One foot in the bare soil to the right of the stalk’s roots— can you find them on your own?— and one to the left. Then, _only when I say so_ , take hold of this stake and try to lift it perpendicular to the ground.” Lark hiked up her own skirts, and stepped carefully into the bed. Her feet were already bare, as always, and it seemed as if Rosethorn might have noticed. When Lark caught the other woman’s glance, she saw something new there— was it admiration?

Once she found solid footing, she gave Rosethorn a nod. Rosethorn closed her eyes and began to breathe in counts of seven, the way Lark had learned as an acrobat and was just beginning to learn in a whole new way. Slowly, not wanting to rip the stalks, Rosethorn began to ease the plants away from her ensnared limbs and coax the vines towards the stake once more. Once her body was free she stepped away and arched her back to stretch cramped muscles with a grateful moan.

“You have a grip on that stake? Pull it towards you. _Gently_ , mind you, these aren't as strong as I'd like them to be yet.” Lark did as she was told, easing the reed upright. “Perfect. Right there. Hang on while I get to the other side and we'll push it in together. Behave!” Rosethorn gently tapped at a vine tendril sneaking towards her and it slunk back, properly chastened.

With the stake firmly in the ground, Rosethorn stood back. “It still needs twine. Can you pass me those cut lengths?” Rosethorn began to tie the bean stalks to the stake with twine from the bottom up, wherever the plant might need extra support. But the plants fought against her and undid her seemingly tight knots. “Mila save me, what has gotten into these beans today?!”

“Might I try something?” Lark reached for the twine. “Just tell me where to tie it. You keep the beans out of trouble.” She could tell Rosethorn wanted to protest, but her options were few and she begrudgingly assented.

“Start there, with that cluster. Thread it through like I did so the strongest stalk runs parallel to the stake. Tie it secure, but leave the stem room to breathe!” Lark worked the hemp twine through the mass of quivering leaves. The hemp worked with her easily— it wanted to rejoin its plantmates and when they weren't startling it out of knots, it held well. She worked her way up the stake, tying off at every spot Rosethorn pointed to. She shaped each knot in a firm tie meant to bring prosperity, and closed the ends together so none would escape. Then she sent magic through the threads to instruct the hemp to at least coax the beans into a manageable growing pattern. Finished, she carefully extracted herself from the soil.

Rosethorn surveyed Lark’s work, eyebrows knit together and lips pursed. Lark still couldn’t tell when that expression meant trouble or when it meant a prosperous attempt at an alliance between them. “Can you make hemp thread that can do that on its own? Encourage the growing pattern and seal the ends but expand with the stem? It could be helpful. I’d ask you to assist me, but I know you’ve got better things to do than magic a thousand bits of string in my garden every day.”

With a shock, Lark realized she might not mind. Not if it meant more moments like this. Of them working together. “I— I should be able to suss that out,” she stammered a bit. “I can talk with Seamsong about a more permanent working, and until then I can do it by hand. That is, if— if you’ll have me," she finished, a bit foolishly.

“It's certainly no problem with me if it isn't for you. Can you help me tackle at least the rest of these monstrosities for today? They mean to drive me battle-wild.”

Lark grinned at the slightly terrifying notion of Rosethorn in battle. “Of course,” she said. “Let me just set protections so my wool doesn’t blow away while it dries.” She jogged quickly down the garden path.

From behind, she heard another shout. “Lark! Thank you!” Lark dipped her head and smiled again. Beyond proper manners, Rosethorn had never truly thanked her before. She found herself taking pleasure in the fact that it was a moment she’d surely cherish for a long time. If Rosethorn’s prevailing brusqueness demonstrated anything, it meant her _friendliness_ was undoubtedly genuine when offered.

Lark tugged a long curl that had come undone from her knot of hair, thinking of how difficult it was to allow herself to trust someone, and how much she simultaneously longed to do so. She wanted to hear an infinity of Rosethorn’s “thank you’s” in their time together. For those words, and that understanding, the work—  and the wait— would be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> (it begins. thank you to every single one of my four beta readers (blythe, sonia, victoria, roshan) for continually encouraging my improvement draft by draft. you are all amazing, and only two of you actually ship this. more on its way--keep an eye out!)


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